


A Helping Hand

by Cousin Shelley (CousinShelley)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cold ghost hands, Ghosts, Hand Jobs, Haunted Sword, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, haunted objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26470417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/pseuds/Cousin%20Shelley
Summary: Geralt accepts a sword as payment and discovers he's not as resistant to some types of magic as he thought.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 224
Collections: Jump Scare 2020





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mornelithe_falconsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mornelithe_falconsbane/gifts).



The merchant who'd talked up every item in his shop as if he only carried the finest antiquities known to man handed Geralt a dull, chipped sword he claimed was magic. The handle was thick and ornately carved, and the blade was twice as wide as it needed to be. It was hideous, but despite being chipped in a few places, it was incredibly sharp. 

Geralt frowned at the man. "An enchanted sword?”

“No, not enchanted, exactly.”

“Cursed, then.”

“The man who forged it lived a miserable life. He died after he lost everything that mattered to him and is said to be bound to the sword in death.” The man waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not the story that makes it valuable, it’s what the sword does for its owner.”

“A haunted sword.” Geralt handed it back to the merchant, the story was ridiculous, but the man put his hands up and wouldn't take it. 

“Whoever possesses it is granted something they truly desire. The unhappy man who created it seems to want to help others in a way no one ever helped him. But like all swords with a double edge, it can cut both ways. Its singular purpose becomes granting its new owner’s wish, no matter the consequences.”

“What if I don't make a wish?”

The merchant sighed and spoke slowly as if talking to a child. “You don’t have to make a wish. It simply knows what you want, and ensures you get it. Surely that’s worth more than your standard fee? And I’ll pay it up front. Take it now. Once you get what you want, thanks to the sword, you can come back and do the job for me. I'll trust you, see?"

Geralt knew that most enchanted, cursed and haunted objects were ordinary things, their stories made up by merchants hoping for a little extra coin by selling something special. This merchant wanted him to catch someone stealing from his shop at night, but Geralt had no intention of stopping here long enough to do that, at least not right now. 

He could take the sword, and when it turned out to be one more heavy thing to drag from place to place, he could sell it and forget about coming back. Though it was heavy enough that it could make quick work of most of the creatures he ended up battling, if nothing else. It seemed foolish to pass up the gift of a sturdy weapon. 

Jaskier waited outside with Roach, and once Geralt had secured the sword to the horse’s pack, they found the road and left town. The sun was dropping in the sky by the time they made camp near the river. 

Geralt was tired and looking forward to sleep, and he was also tired of hearing Jaskier complain about the payment he’d accepted. 

“You can’t eat a sword, Geralt. You probably can’t even trade that beat-up thing for food, ale or a warm, dry room. Next town, you should try to sell it to another snake-oil merchant and at least have something to show for it." His face brightened. "Maybe the ghost man in the sword _does_ take requests. You think if I asked it to help you _rob_ the next lying merchant we come across we can afford to travel in style?"

Jaskier had already complained at length about them sleeping outside again, and only ten minutes from Fairmont. But they were running low on coin, and the weather was fair enough. Fairmont also wasn’t the most welcoming place for Witchers. 

Geralt stripped to the waist and washed himself by wetting a rag in the river, the water colder than he’d have liked. Jaskier changed out of his traveling clothes into something finer in pale blue with copper accents. 

“You don't want to sleep?” Geralt asked.

“Not if I’m lucky.” Jaskier flashed him a smile. “Don’t wait up.”

As Jaskier walked away, Geralt felt himself propelled toward Roach, and in seconds the sword was in his hand. He rushed to get in front of Jaskier and block his path, the sword held up between them. Geralt clenched his jaw and tried to pull it back, tried to step out of Jaskier’s way, but didn’t budge. 

A cold hand covered his, forcing him to grip the sword tight enough his knuckles ached. He focused on trying to see what was there, but only caught brief flashes of misty white wrapped around his hand.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier put his fingers against the flat part of the blade and pushed it aside. “Don’t worry. I won’t come running back with an angry husband on my heels or anything.”

He stepped around Geralt, but again the sword pulled Geralt forward. He caught up to Jaskier and stood behind him with the flat of the blade against Jaskier’s chest to keep him from moving away. 

“Geralt, what the _hell_ are you doing?”

“It’s not me,” he growled. 

Jaskier spun. “Are trying to say the sword really is haunted?”

Geralt tilted his head as he pulled his arm forward, urging Jaskier closer to him with the sword against his back. “Have another explanation?”

“Put it down.”

“Can’t.”

Jaskier ducked beneath it and stepped away, and before he got more than two feet the sword lay against his throat. 

He blinked fast, his mouth moving for a moment before he spoke. “You said the sword gives you what you desire?” His laugh came out bitter. “All this time I thought you were joking when you said you wanted to kill me.”

“No . . . I don’t.”

“The sword apparently begs to differ.”

The blade lifted into the air. Jaskier closed his eyes. As much as Geralt struggled, gripping it with both hands in an attempt to pull it away or toss it aside, he could not pry his hands from beneath the cold ones clamped around them or stop the blade from coming down. 

* * *

For a few seconds, Jaskier believed his throat was about to be cut. But the blade lowered itself gently onto his shoulder, flat side down. He stared wide-eyed at Geralt, waiting for it to flick sideways and slice into his neck. 

“I truly thought we were friends,” he said. He thought they might be more than that, but had never had the courage to voice it or act on it. Probably wise, given that the man he thought was his best friend was about to murder him because of a magic fucking sword. 

“I don’t want to kill you, Jaskier!” 

“Then why is this happening?”

The blade didn’t bury itself in his neck. It pressed down on his shoulder with more and more insistence, until Jaskier had no choice but to drop to his knees. Geralt’s face relaxed as he stepped close, the sword sliding over Jaskier’s shoulder to stop with its point resting on the ground beside him. 

Geralt closed his eyes, looking as relieved as Jaskier felt. 

Something cold, like icy fingers stroking his skin, brushed Jaskier's cheek. "It's touching me," he gasped. Geralt squinted at him, his face partly in shadow because of the firelight. But aside from the startle, Jaskier didn't feel threatened. Cold fingers urged him forward until his face was nearly touching the swell in the front of Geralt's trousers.

Understanding dawned.

“So,” Jaskier said, swallowing hard. “I’m assuming this desire of yours that the sword ghost is making happen has nothing to do with you wanting to . . . knight me."

Geralt tilted his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t control—”

“Sorry?” Jasker scoffed. He licked his lips and blew out a breath. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Geralt.”

When Jaskier leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against the tight leather covering Geralt's cock, Geralt groaned. Jaskier unlaced his trousers and pulled them open. He gripped Geralt’s hips to hold him fast, then sucked him in. Pride flared in his chest when Geralt’s knees softened, and he seemed to keep his balance only thanks to the sword now driven a few knuckles deep into the ground. The soft groans Jaskier drew from Geralt combined with the feel of him hardening in pulses and climbing toward release on his tongue was more than enough to stoke Jaskier's desire and bring him to the edge. 

Geralt gripped his hair, not gentle but not quite painful, so Jaskier strained to take as much of him in as he could, swallowing, swirling his tongue in the places that drove him wild when he was fortunate enough to have an enthusiastic bedmate. 

A groan punched out of Geralt as he came. Then his fingers loosened in Jaskier’s hair, and he stepped backward to stare down at him. 

Jaskier wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and panted, desperate for release himself. But Geralt stared, unmoving. Jaskier wanted to plead with him to say something, anything, but he had a little bit of pride he thought he should cling to. 

So, that was it. Just the carnal desire to have his cock sucked? Probably had nothing to do with Jaskier at all. His arousal began to fade, forced out by the humiliation that started to settle in. Jaskier nodded and got to his feet.

“All right then. Glad to be of help, I guess.” He cleared his throat and headed for the path. He didn’t care so much about finding a bedmate for the night, but he could use a drink. Several drinks. 

Before he’d gone three steps, Geralt pressed against him from behind, the sword once against flat against his chest. Then Geralt’s hand slid into the front of his trousers. 

“Geralt, is this the sword, or some sense of obligation that makes you feel the need to reciprocate? Because if you don’t want—”

Geralt kissed the side of his neck, teeth dragging over his skin, and his calloused fingers wrapped around Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier's arousal returned, more urgent than before. 

“I want this,” Geralt growled into his ear, then mouthed the side of his throat again. He pulled Jaskier’s cock free from his clothing and set a galloping pace, no nuance or teasing, but with the clear aim of making him come fast and hard. 

It worked. Jaskier’s body arched. He threw his head back against Geralt's shoulder as his pleasure was dragged from him one rough stroke at a time. Geralt didn’t stop until the sensation became almost too much, and Jaskier was practically squirming in his grip. 

Like before, Geralt let go of him and stepped back, leaving him to pant and shudder and wonder why the hell he moved away. “Gods, Geralt.”

Why did Geralt look so stricken, his grip on the sword tight as before? How many times would they have to come before the sword decided he’d been granted what he wanted? 

When Geralt stood mute once again, Jaskier turned away, wondering if the sword would catch him and expect something more. 

Geralt’s hand gripped the back of his neck, spun him and pulled him into a rough kiss. A kiss like an argument full of teeth and tongues where each man was determined to have the last word. Jaskier leaned against him, and gave himself over to it, enjoying the fact that his hands roamed over Geralt’s chest without the need for an excuse like rubbing him down after a fight or checking for injuries to treat. 

Jaskier was the one who stepped back this time, to get a good look at Geralt’s face. He had to be sure he could let his hopes rise again that this was more than a physical need anybody within reach could have fulfilled. 

The sword rose in Geralt’s hand and flicked through one of the laces on Jaskier’s tunic. 

“Hey! This was expensive, I'll have you know.” 

The sword flicked through another lace. "Perhaps you should remove it then.” Geralt didn’t look stricken anymore, or like he struggled against the weapon in his hand 

“Seems wise, doesn’t it?” Jaskier pulled the tunic the rest of the way out of his trousers and peeled it off. Geralt tossed the sword aside and grabbed Jaskier with both hands. 

* * *

Later, they lay naked on a coarse blanket near the fire, catching their breath. Jaskier traced a jagged scar above Geralt’s ribcage with a fingertip. “What was it you agreed to do for the merchant again?”

“Catch a thief.” 

“Are we going back to do that tomorrow, or . . .”

“His advance payment probably warrants that.” 

“Yes. Might be the best fee you’ve ever gotten. I love that sword. It’s my favorite sword, ever, I think.” Jaskier sat up halfway and looked to the place Geralt had tossed it. “It’s, um, gone.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if it’s back at that merchant’s shop when we arrive.”

"Wonder what lucky person will find it next." When Geralt didn't answer, Jaskier brushed his lips over a scar on his shoulder. “You never needed a sword, haunted or otherwise, just so we’re clear.”

"Hm. I've figured that out."

Jaskier felt sleep pull at him, but he couldn't resist asking one more question, especially after the way Geralt had reacted when he'd been in Jaskier's mouth. “I’m curious, Geralt. How would you rank my fellatio skills out of all your other lovers?”

Geralt sighed. “ _Jaskier_ —”

“Except Yennefer. Discount her, because she’s probably the best at everything she does, witch and everything. Let’s just say, the men. How do my skills compare?”

Geralt let out a long slow breath, corners of his mouth tilting up. “You suck better than you sing.”

Jaskier gasped. “Such an arse. I’m serious. Is there someone you know better at it than me?”

Geralt waited too long before answering, leading Jaskier to dread the answer. “There is someone I know who's a little better at it."

Only a little better? He tried not to feel too deflated. “Who?”

Geralt rolled onto him, then slid down his body, smirking. When he took Jaskier into his mouth, Jaskier shouted and arched off the blanket.

“Oh! Oh, well . . . Geralt, certainly, you win. And because of that, I _also_ win." He sank his fingers into Geralt's hair and silently promised to start writing an ode to the haunted sword and its helpful ghost, his favorite ghost ever, first thing in the morning. 


End file.
